This is Hallowe'en?
by Beebo
Summary: The rescue of two fraternal twins leads the League to take port at a remote island village in Ireland. Though the feast begs to differ, are these grateful villagers more than they seem? And why do they take such keen interest in Jekyll, Mina and Skinner?
1. To Catch an Early Bird

**Edit:** A big thanks to my wonderful reviewers for pointing out my synonym issues! I've touched this chapter up a bit, though it still has that rushed air to it. The following chapters won't be this way, I assure you. Thanks once again!

**Author's Note/Disclaimer:** I don't own the LXG in any way, shape or form (other than the graphic novel and movie). All the characters are the property of their respected creators--all of whom I love--with the exception of my original characters that are as follows: Sock and Buskin, Celine Haddock, and the villiage of Aisling (with all its villagers) are belong to me. Please do not use without my permission--though I can't imagine why you'd want to.  
This story was meant to be done sooner in honor of Halloween and all, but I just couldn't make the cut. I'm hoping to have it all done by Guy Fawkes Day, but knowing me, that's unlikely. I'd also like to apologize to all the UK readers out there for any mistakes my American-ness may make in future chapters. Keep me on my toes, guys!  
Thanks for reading thus far, and enjoy:

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* * *

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**Chapter One: To Catch an Early Bird**

_Somewhere near Ireland's west coast—October 30__th__, 1899_

* * *

"Golly," breathed the accented voice of Tom Sawyer as he stood at the rail on the deck of the conning tower. His lightly freckled face was lit with both awe and the red-orange light of dawn, a soft smile beginning to creep up for the first time in months. 

The view ahead of him was that of a large, verdant isle shrouded in sun-pinked mist. Wild horses could only just be seen running along the shoreline behind a curtain of ocean spray.

_Gotta get me one of them,_ he noted silently, watching the herd._ Maybe Mina'd like—_

"Breath-taking, isn't it?"

Tom nearly leapt from his skin at the sudden appearance of the vampire in question.

"Land's sake, Mina! You're quieter than a cat on sawdust," he relaxed and attempted what he hoped to be a charming smile. "Good thing I'm not a mouse, huh?" he added with a weak laugh, knowing she could see through his poor disarming front.

"It would seem you're losing your touch, Mr. Sawyer," she said with her own slight smile, placing her hands on the rail near his.

"Nah, you just caught the early worm, Miss Bird," he said with the remnants of his old, cheeky grin. He then looked back out toward the islet where they'd soon be making port, a distant look in his hazel eyes.

Mina looked at Tom with her usual mask of blank emotion, allowing him all the time he needed for silence. She remembered how he'd detested the "eggshell-walking" at first, but as autumn began, he'd simply ignored it altogether. Mongolia had seemed to rob the plucky American of his optimism, and it killed her to see it happen.

Yet, this morning, a spark of the old Sawyer had returned. Maybe, with a little more encouragement…

"Do you like horses?"

"Pardon?" The question was so arbitrarily placed that Mina wasn't quite sure she'd heard him right.

"Horses; do you like 'em?" He then pointed out toward the nearing shore where the rollicking herd of horses, their coats glistening in the sunlight, was now grazing.

"I've always wanted one when I was a kid, so I could be a proper knight, like in my books, and—"

Mina suddenly cut across Tom's old flights of fancy in a sharp tone filled with tension and alarm.

"Tom, look there," she pointed a slender, sharp-nailed finger to a mass of flotsam that was about to pass the ship. "I think I see someone down there."

He followed her finger, his sharp eyes making out a fragile form lying prostrate on the driftwood, and another splashing frantically about like a mouse half-drowned. The young man cursed loudly in distress, already heading for the hatch inside.

"Those are two kids down there! I'll go tell Nemo to stop the boat, and grab Dr. Jekyll. You get them up here fast as you can, Mina." By the time she'd partially transformed and leapt over the railing, Tom had reached the stepladder's bottom and was now running.

* * *

While Sawyer was explaining to Nemo what they'd discovered as best he could, Skinner, Gentleman Thief, was down in the library. Though he was never much of a book-reader, preferring tableaus to the dry words of the modern writer, Rodney found lounging in the comfy chairs amongst the mute tomes a nice reprise from the monotonous white walls and portholes of the other rooms. 

_Besides,_ he added to himself, filling a tumbler up with amber liquid taken from the liquor cabinet near him. _I can 'ave me fill without Patty breathin' down me neck._

Ever since Dr. Jekyll had started the process of healing Skinner's burns from Mongolia, First Mate Patel had taken his task of guarding the invisible thief's alcohol intake with almost alarming fervency.

"Bloke's a bleedin' mother 'en," Rodney grumbled at the thought of Patel, taking a long and satisfying drink from his glass. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him, and the floating _nez pince_ glasses whipped around to look over his bandaged, invisible shoulder.

"Oh, Skinner," greeted the pleasant and meek voice of Dr. Jekyll. "I didn't even notice you come in. Well, I suppose it is a fairly big library—"

"—And I do 'ave that 'lack of visibility' problem, which could add to it," Skinner pointed out, not without good humor.

"Well, yes, that too." Jekyll managed a weak smile, shifting his grip on a thick book beneath his arm. Within the small, awkward silence—which seemed to follow poor Henry as closely as his vicious counterpart, Mr. Hyde—the good doctor raised a brow in suspicion, bordering reprimand, at the tumbler.

"I was also unaware that Mr. Patel was allowing you to drink so much today."

"Aw, come off it, Jekyll," Rodney groaned, setting the glass down and gesticulating with wrapped hands.

"Where's the 'arm in a little Scotch, hmm? Me mum always gave it to us whenever things like this came about."

It was meant as a joke, but like most of the thief's attempts at cajoling Jekyll, it failed.

"Yes, well, thankfully, I'm not your mother—"

"Could've fooled me," Skinner muttered sulkily.

"And furthermore, I sincerely doubt that excessive consumption of liquor will—"

"It's not 'excessive'! Give a chap a break—"

"Mr. Skinner!" Henry nearly shouted, his face turning red with frustration as he slammed his book down on a nearby table.

"I've enough interrupting from Edward, I don't need you assisting him!"

Another awkward pause, and it seemed that Rodney had been subdued into silence by Jekyll's outburst.

"Right. As I was trying to say—" The good doctor's monologue was, once more, cut short, this time by Tom Sawyer, who'd just burst into the room as though being pursued.

"There you are! Jekyll, we need you infirmary right away," Tom ordered, close to panting as he took hold of the bewildered physician's arm and started leading him out.

* * *

"Is s-someone hurt?" Henry questioned and quickened his pace to a short jog, his slight stutter making itself evident. "Is it Mina?" 

_Remember, Harry,_ whispered the harsh voice of Hyde within his mind. _Her eye's on _him_ now, so no playing "doctor."_

"Mina's fine, doc," Tom reassured, oblivious to Jekyll's muttering ("Shut up!") or Hyde's commentary.

"She and I were up top when we spotted a couple of kids floatin' around in the sea. They're near frozen through."

Henry felt a mixture of relief and jealousy at Tom's assurance, followed closely by self-loathing.

Thankfully, any and all contradicting emotions dissipated as he slipped into a professional mode. Dr. Jekyll walked in ahead of Sawyer into the well-furnished ward, and his long strides brought him to the children's beds quickly.

The boy was thin, dark-haired and barely conscious; his sister was short, red-haired with curls and unmoving. Both looked to be about eight or nine.

A basic test for her pulse and pupil dilation told Jekyll she was stable, yet unconscious. The children were soon wrapped in thick blankets, with hot-water bottles placed beneath each of them.

"Sock-k…" the boy rasped out, greatly confusing Henry, since both of the boy's feet were now covered in two pairs of his own woolen stockings.

"M-my-my s-s-sister..." he managed between chattering teeth, small head lolling over to face the resting girl.

Henry smiled warmly and answered the unasked question. "She's going to be just fine. We're going to take very good care of you both, but you really must get some sleep now."

The little boy nodded listlessly, but managed one last puzzling sentiment before succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

"They tried to kill us…"


	2. The Smell of Denmark The Call of Heroes

**Author's Note/Disclaimer: **I'd like to give a big thanks to all my reviewers for chapter 1, anonymous and known! I hadn't expected so many reviews so quickly. Thanks for all the lovely tips on improving this little nugget of LXG fiction. Hope I'm managing to keep your interest peaked and spread some suspense.

Once again, I own nothing say for the village, its inhabitants, the twins and (later) Celine. Now, onto the next installment:

**Chapter 2: The Smell of Denmark; The Call of Heroes**

* * *

Henry shared a silent, worried look with Tom and Mina. Tom's face was screwed up in concentration as he pondered the boy's statement; while Mina's may have been carved from stone were it not for the troubled glimmer in her ice-blue eyes.

"What's wrong with you lot?"

A black leather duster sporting some sporadically placed bandages had waltzed into the medical ward. Skinner's glasses—the only sign that he wasn't headless—turned toward each of the three league members.

"Somebody die?" The question wasn't as lighthearted as one would expect from the invisible jokester, given the recent tragedy that had befallen them.

Though he'd never know for sure, Tom would have bet his Colt pistols those unseen eyes were looking at him.

"Not quite," Mina answered, crisp as the fall air on the conning tower. Her eyes were on the tiny patients while her sensitive ears listened to the steadying "thump-thump" of their hearts with relief.

The three extraordinary gentlemen followed suit, feeling that paradoxical sense of something large and sinister as the children slept on in peace.

"What should we do?" It was Jekyll who asked the question, his pale blue eyes looking to Tom for answers.  
In fact, it seemed all were quietly awaiting the plucky American's call.

_Damn, even _that_ guy's waitin',_ Sawyer glanced over at a crewman that was arbitrarily turning knobs, making it look like he was really doing something, so he could listen in. The sharp-shooting Southern son rubbed the back of his neck in thought.

"We need to have a meetin'."

* * *

They sat there at the long table in the Captain's planning room. The remains of a rag-tag team of unique men and women now looked to their new leader. It was quiet, say for the hum and whir of Nemo's navigation equipment.

Tom sat in his usual chair, leaving Allan's empty. It just…hadn't felt right to move it like they had with Dorian's.

Captain Nemo broke the silence that had fallen after the recent update of their young wards' condition.

"My question on this whole affair is this: Can we take the words of mere children seriously? Surely there are too many variables within this equation to take action."

"Yeah," the now painted face of Skinner chimed in. "But what if the little tike wasn't making it up? There could be some kid-killing nutter runnin' around out there!"

"Honestly, Mr. Skinner," Jekyll argued in his timorous tone of voice. "The Captain's point is valid. The children were a step away from death when Mrs. Harker brought them onboard. So, it's logical if either of them were to—"

"Mention attempted murder?" Rodney snorted, earning a look of disapproval from Nemo on the good doctor's behalf. The invisible thief then added with a bit of chagrin, "I mean, can we risk _not_ checking things out a bit?" He turned his empty eyes on the American who sat across from him.

Tom glanced up, seeing his teammates' faces, but gaining encouragement only from one. She offered him a small quirk of the lips—a genuine smile.

"The way I see it, we've got some 'reasonable doubt' on our hands," he began, the familiar brightness gleaming in his eyes. "That calls for a little snoopin', don't it?"

"I'd have to agree with agent Sawyer," Mina said, lacing her fingers together on the table before her.

"Yeah," Tom went on, confidence building. "They couldn't have been driftin' too far, right? Otherwise they'd be shark food. Question is, where to look first?"

Nemo shifted in his seat, apparently fighting the urge to correct Sawyer on the specific habitats of sea creatures.

"The island we are approaching has a port," Nemo said, and then added, almost thoughtfully, "It had a few vessels docked there; skiffs resembling the wreckage we pulled the young ones from."

Tom raised his eyebrows, leaning back with crossed arms.

"Well, if that ain't a clue, then I'll eat my badge." He looked out through a near porthole, noting the height of the sun: Early afternoon. "How soon can we make port?"

The older man gave him a wry grin.

"My Lady is being secured to the dock as we speak," he raised his own brow. "How soon will you be ready to 'snoop', Mr. Sawyer?"

The young man's face broke into a beam of admiration, and Tom stood up to clap the austere captain on the back good-naturedly, coming close to knocking the turban askew.

"Alright, fellas, and lady," Tom's face became stern. "Let's see if we can't figure out this mess."

* * *

" 'Ow's that for 'inconspicuous'?" Skinner looked up at the massive submersible, whose looming shadow encompassed the whole of the harbor and its boats. Shaking his head at the absurdity of their troupe crossing this rustic, splintering wooden dock, bearing everything from old elephant guns to grease-painted faces.

Still, something didn't smell right in Denmark—to loosely following the saying—and they had an obligation to uphold. Not one necessarily from the Crown (as if that'd be reason enough after Mongolia), but as heroes.

_That is what we are now, right?_ _Unconventional ones, but heroes nonetheless, _Rodney mused to himself, gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of his buttoned-up duster as he walked alongside Jekyll.

The mousy doctor's expression was one of deep thought and, perhaps, annoyance.

"Tuppence for your thoughts?"

Jekyll glanced up, startled at the sudden question, and stared at his addresser as though seeing him for the first time.

"Pardon?"

"Easy, doc," Rodney chuckled, holding up his hands in mock-defense. "You looked so far away, just 'ad to make sure you could still 'ear us." He lowered his hands, sobering a little.

"'Ey, sorry if I seemed like I was knockin' your…er, diagnosis or whatever earlier. I just thought—"

"Skinner," Jekyll put up a hand to stop his apology, though not unkindly. "I understand. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I agreed with you in the first place, but one cannot throw out any other possibilities in my profession."

Yet, Henry still had a distinctly ruffled countenance the moment he turned to face the lush hill they were climbing. Curious as ever, Skinner pried some more while trying not to slip on the dew-slicked grass.

"So, Hyde got a bee in 'is bonnet or something then?"

"Something," Jekyll answered vaguely, pausing to catch his breath at the knoll's top, and giving the thief a somewhat steady hand. "He…doesn't particularly like this place."

"Oh?"

"Yes, but then again, there isn't much Hyde _does_ like," Jekyll gazed over the tiny cluster of buildings and pastures that made up the village before them. Most of the foundations were houses—each identical in its simplicity—while two larger ones seemed to be a town hall of sorts, and a quaint church.

"Nothing good, at least."

_Ouch, Harry,_ Hyde growled, his sarcasm spilling through Jekyll's mind like oil on water. _It hurts when you belittle me so._

"Do y'all hear that?" Tom interjected, momentarily distracting both Jekyll and Hyde.

The League listened carefully, catching a panicked, mournful sound on the wind blowing out from the parish towards the sea at their back. One could only just make out a gathering crowd of figures at the town's edge.

"Voices," Mina murmured, setting them even further on edge with her clarification.

Wasting no time, the heroes rushed down the slope, hoping they weren't too late after all.


	3. Sprechen Sie Gilgamesh?

**Author's Note/Disclaimer: **Alas! It would seem I was unable to meet my promised deadline after all! Well, the least I can do is supply you all with daily updates, eh?  
I'd like to thank Skunk, OSC, Kurtz and Bermuda for the loverly reviews and crits. You guys are my inspiration to keep going no matter what the deadline be! So, in order to show my appreciation, and celebrate Bonfire Night, I'm giving you this much longer and more eventful chapter. The next one's where things get a little...wonky, to say the least, for our dear LXG.  
Which reminds me, I still don't own the League or anything regarding it. All I've got is Aisling, its people, the twins (Yes, their names _are_ still Sock and Buskin), and Miss Celine Haddock who has yet to make an appearance. Also, please forgive me if I've made any grammatical mistakes regarding the Gaelic in this fic. I did my best. '

And now, without further ado, I bring you:

**Chapter Three: Sprechen Sie Gilgamesh?**

* * *

The shouting had that strange, rhythmic pattern of a child calling out for a pet after its run into a busy street. It grew with intensity, panic shooting through every ululated syllable.

"Faolan, Eithne, _taispeánaidís_!" This cry, and others like it, rang out the strongest from three individuals that seemed to lead the crowd of villagers. They were a man and woman with red curls—the latter clutching tightly to the dark-haired man's arm—and an old woman gripping a walking stick as gnarled as her hand.

"_Páistí_? _Diúltach!_"

Though the League hadn't the faintest idea what was being said, Nemo could identify it as Gaelic, a language he'd never fully bothered to learn.

"Eithne? Faolan! _Cén __áit_—?" The younger woman suddenly stopped her urgent calls upon seeing the five odd strangers. She gasped, and like an avalanche, the throng of people echoed behind her.

This much they had anticipated. Dr. Jekyll took note of the man and woman closest to them—the official leaders of this charge—and how the two greatly resembled the rescued siblings still sleeping on the ship. Skinner noticed this too, and was grateful to Jekyll for not pointing it out. Both Mina and Nemo remained their customary abstemious selves, while Tom just smiled awkwardly.

Yet, each of the Crown's "chosen" champions shared one singularly bewildered look at the next scene:

A heavyset man with a gray-streaked, coppery beard stepped away from the others, and walked toward the painted face, floating bandages and black duster that was Skinner. He lifted one calloused hand in cautious greeting, and asked, "_Taibhse_?"

"Tie-whaty?" was the thief's confused response. "Er, sorry, I don't _sprechen sie _Gilgamesh—"

"Gaelic," Nemo and Jekyll corrected in tandem.

"Right, what they said." Rodney's grin seemed weak and ineffectual as he stood before this group of seemingly innocent people. The villager suddenly laughed, startling him.

"No, I s'pose you aren't a ghost, then, but British?" The man asked, receiving a nod from Skinner as well as Jekyll and Mina. This started a whole new round of noise from the township, most of it in English now.

"What are they doin' in Aisling?"

"Look at that rifle!"

"Where's his body? _A n__á _Nera?"

"Everyone shut yer gobs!" shouted the old crone beside the young couple, gaining immediate peace. She nodded to the dark-haired man, obviously the husband of the near-frantic woman crying out earlier, and he walked nearer the League.  
He paused a moment, as if unsure of who to speak to, and then faced Skinner, bowing his head respectfully.

"Pardon me, good sir," he began, his quiet tenor humbled and strained. "Have you, or your followers, seen a little boy and girl—twins? You know," he gestured with his hand, struggling to find the right word. "They don't look it though; the mismatch kind o' twins."

'_Followers'?_ Rodney Skinner, Gentleman Thief, found himself speechless. The sheer number of witty phrases and jibes he could throw at his fellow extraordinary gentlemen had tangled his tongue.

"Maybe we did," Sawyer answered for his shell-shocked friend, still suspicious of these people. _Anyone who thinks Skinner's in charge has to be nutty,_ he thought, partly joking.

"What do they look like?"

The dark-haired man turned a slight scowl on Sawyer, not appreciating the American's almost flippant attitude. Tom noticed he was nearly a head taller than him, and had the sunburn and muscles of hardworking farmer. The man's green eyes burned a hidden challenge into Sawyer's hazel ones, and the Missourian felt the itch of tension on his trigger finger.

"Please!" The young wife rushed forward, wringing her hands in worry as she looked into their faces, settling on Mina's.

"Eithne has hair like mine and is bit shorter than her brother," the woman tugged lightly at her loose curls, and hooked her arm through her husband's. "Faolan's thin and has his father's hair."

"Sounds like our patients," Dr. Jekyll replied, offering the overjoyed mother a reassuring smile.

Tom sighed; rubbing the back of his neck, feeling as though he'd not only missed the target but broke a window too.

"I have question for you, Mr. and Mrs…?" Nemo interjected smoothly, interrupting the celebrations before they could start. He looked a little nettled at having been so thoroughly ignored by all the islanders; finding that none had even spared him a passing glance, say for the shrewd old woman. She didn't seem to miss a thing.

"Delaine Daray," answered the man steadily, his arm around his wife's small frame. "And my wife, Rhoswen."

Nemo gave a curt nod of the head in acknowledgement. "Mr. Daray, when my colleagues and I found your children, they were stranded on the remains of what appeared to be a raft or skiff. The boy (Faolan you said his name was?) seemed to be under the impression that someone was trying to kill both him and his sister."

A strange hush fell over the crowd, as if everyone were simultaneously thinking of what next to say. Rhoswen wore an expression of hurt and confusion taking the captain's word like a direct accusation, while her husband's scowl only deepened.

"Riley Keegan," growled Mr. Daray, rolling his "r"s so fiercely that Tom was reminded of tiger he once saw at a traveling circus back home. Delaine nodded grimly, and, determined to confirm his theory, strode with purpose toward a guilty-looking teenager. The much bigger farmer took the lad's thin arm, dragged him in front of the League like a man condemned, and gave him a none-too-gentle shove.

"Explain yourself, boy," Mr. Daray demanded in that low rumble of a voice. "What sort o' tricks were you an' the rest o' your no-good friends up to last night?"

"We was only playin'!" Riley protested, his nervous eyes darting from Nemo's sword to the elephant gun at Tom's side, and resting on Skinner's alabaster face. "You know, takin' the mickey out o' 'em, is all…Told 'em a few bogey stories an'…might've pulled faces at their window."

He cringed at the near-murderous look Delaine gave him, adding in a fearful voice, "We didn't think they'd try an' run off in a boat! Honest!"

"That's where my fault lies, Del." Riley Keegan ran back into obscurity amongst the disapproving looks of his fellows when the bearded man removed his slouch hat and sighed.

"I'm in charge o' tyin' the boats up proper, and two littluns managed to make light work o' my knots." He smiled apologetically to the Darays, who waved it off.

"Don't trouble about it, Merv," Rhoswen said, positively beaming as she went forward to clasp Jekyll's arm in gratitude. "This man and his friends saved them!"

"Er, yes they're both sleeping onboard our ship," Henry responded, discomfited by the woman's close quarters and strong hold on his arm. Deep in his mind, Hyde's muttered something rude and offensive that Henry pushed aside, giving her a self-depreciating smile.

"But, really, it was Agent Sawyer and Mrs. Harker that rescued your children." He gestured to Mina and Tom. "I just gave them blankets and a check-up…"

"You give yourself little credit," Mr. Daray responded, clapping the doctor heartily on his thin shoulders, almost careening him into Rhoswen. Delaine shook Tom's hand briefly before luxuriously bowing to Mina.

"I thank you for the lives of our Faolan and Eithne, good lady."

Mina's face pinked slightly, looking a bit scandalized by such gratitude from both a stranger and married man. Sawyer's face rivaled Nemo's in irritation at the snubbing.

His fist tightened around Matilda's barrel as he fought the urge to club Delaine, who was now starting to ask Mina where they came from and who they were. Rhoswen had started another round of fawning on Jekyll's medical prowess, while "Merv" couldn't stop shaking Skinner's gloved hand.

Thankfully, Nemo had the foresight to draw everyone's attention back on the important matter: "Should we go and retrieve your children now, Mr. Daray? I can imagine you'd want them returned as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes, sir," Mr. Daray replied, appearing not the least bit chagrined about his behavior. "And please, call me Del. We're all friends here now, right?"

"Right," Sawyer said tersely, turning on his heel back to _Nautilus_.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Daray, instead of accompanying the League, decided to stay behind with the rest of the villagers. The old woman, whose name they learned was Morrígan Cailleach, had called an impromptu town meeting that they had to attend.  
Understanding, though still a little wary of these seemingly simple townsfolk, Britannia's best went back for the kids alone.

The job was easier going than they had thought, for the twins were fairly light and responsive enough to be moved without a gurney. A good thing too, as it would've been near impossible pushing two beds up and down the slick slopes that made up the landscape.

Tom volunteered to be one of the carriers, lifting the frail Faolan up from the soft bed. He made a small noise of protest, but held to Sawyer's shoulders tightly despite the morphine's sleepy effect on him.

After Jekyll removed the intravenous drip from the little girl, he found himself joining Sawyer. For Eithne, catching on to what was being done followed her brother's lead and looped her arms around Henry's lowered neck. There was a moment of nervous sputtering and shooting helpless looks at his teammates before Jekyll gave in, picking her up.

Eithne murmured something incoherent, snuggling her freckled face further against Henry, who cradled her gently looking surprised to say the least.

_I may vomit,_ Hyde groaned, mentally sneering at the head of red curls.

"Shut up, Edward," Henry responded automatically, a distant expression in his eyes.

"Well, well," Skinner said bemusedly. "I think somebody's rather smitten with you, 'Enry." Nemo chuckled softly at the rogue's teasing, leading the way out of the ward and down to the _Nautilus_'s gangplank.

* * *

"Let's pick up the pace, love birds," Rodney called back to Sawyer and Mina, both who balked at the statement. "We can't keep my public waitin', now can we?"

"Just like Skinner," Tom muttered with a smirk to Mina. "One person mistakes him for the head of our little outfit, and he thinks he's the Mahārāja." This got a laugh out of the clandestine vampiress, thus boosting Sawyer's spirits like a Chinese firework at New Years.

_They remind me of Quincy; both of them,_ Mina thought, watching Tom and the little boy with a touch of sadness in her smile as she remembered another persistant American and frail child. He must have noticed, because his boyish grin was replaced with a worried frown, though, Tom didn't get his chance to ask what the matter was.

As soon as the League had reached the knoll's bottom, they were met with the raucous applause of the village.

_You'd think we'd slain a dragon or somethin',_ Tom commented silently, handing Faolan over to his mother, and feeling an odd sense that he'd made some mistake. This thought was banished when he saw the immense relief Rhoswen showed, kissing the boy's forehead like a long sought-after jewel.

Jekyll was also forced to give up Eithne, noting how she wouldn't relinquish her grip on him at first and the disturbing look on her face once Delaine got her. She had been frightened.

_That's ridiculous,_ Henry admonished, shaking Mr. Daray's hand. _This whole ordeal must have been terrifying for her. She's just confused; that's all. _

Is it, Henry? Hyde asked, dropping the maddening nickname of "Harry" that he'd been using against Jekyll lately. _There's something not right about this damned rock. I'm warning you, Henry: We need to leave this place. Remember the last time you ignored me? _

He did indeed remember. It was a failing he'd never fully forgiven himself for. Still, Jekyll shook his head as though the action could dislodge Edward's voice. 

"No," he muttered under his breath. "That's not the case here. It—"

"Everything all right, sir?"

Henry whipped his head around, finding the face of a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair flowing about her shoulders. She blinked her doe-like blue eyes in worry, being so bold as to put a hand on the breathless doctor's shoulder.

_Danger, Henry, danger!_ barked Hyde loudly, causing Jekyll to wince. _Start thinking with the _upper_ brain; that harlot's no goo—!_

"I'm sorry," Henry said shaking his head once more. "What did you say?"

"I was just wonderin' if you were all right, is all," she reiterated, smiling with something that seemed to be much more than amusement. She removed her hand from the shoulder and shook his. "I'm Ciara, Morrígan's granddaughter."

"Doctor Henry Jekyll," he half-smiled, shaking the hand. "At your service."

"It would seem, Doctor, that we should be at yours," croaked old Morrígan, her pale eyes gazing fixedly on them all as she grinned toothily. "You must all stay for the night and celebrate with us."

"That's a bonnie idea!" Merv exclaimed, throwing an arm about Skinner like a long-lost brother. "T'ain't no place better than Aisling to celebrate Samhain! What better way to repay you for the safe return of our littluns?"

"Perhaps, one night wouldn't be out of the question, Captain?" Mina asked, glancing at the stern freedom fighter. "We could re-supply and be ready to leave by the next day."

"Aw, but tomorrow night's the _tine crá__mha_…" Ciara interjected, trailing off upon seeing Nemo's impassive face. "I s'pose we can always have the bonfires earlier."

Finally, the Captain sighed and conceded, "One night. It would be rude," he shot a look at the retreating backs of Delaine and his wife heading for their house. "To ignore our hosts' request."

A final cheer rent the air as the League was lead back to Aisling amidst the chattering crowd. It was decided that Mina would stay with Ciara, who lived alone, while Tom and Nemo would sleep at Merv's humble abode near the shore. Jekyll and Skinner were welcomed at the Darrays with open arms.

* * *

The remainder of the day was spent meeting every one of the two hundred villagers at least once, and feasting on the fine local dishes. Nightfall came quickly, and each member retired to what they felt would be a heavy sleep after the day's festivities.

It had been the first time any of them had been appreciated for their talents—especially Skinner. Not one of the townspeople could go by without talking to him, seeming to be entranced by his appearance—or lack thereof—instead of repulsed like most. Mina found herself surrounded by young men who would shower her with compliments, which had Sawyer in a constant foul mood.

Even nervous Dr. Jekyll, who had forever gone unnoticed by most women, had been accompanied by Miss Ciara Cailleach for most of the day.

Everyone had been thoroughly honored and respected, with the exception of Tom and Captain Nemo, who were treated more as novelties for their exotic backgrounds.

Yes, it appeared that all was well in Aisling…but looks can be deceiving.

* * *

**A/N:** I don't wish to ruin too much by translating all that was said in Gaelic, but I will do a few.  
Taibhse means "ghost," tine cramha means "bonefire" (or bonfire, as they're now called), and Paisti means "children." That's all for now, folks! Chapter 4 should be ready tomorrow...er, today! 


	4. For All the Tea in Aisling

**A/N and Disclaimer:** Hello there my loverly readers! First and foremost, I would like to apologize for so late an update. And here I had said I'd have this chapter up more than a week ago--ha! Yes, but I've been dealing with a very hectic and spontaneous moving situation, in which I've moved from one state to live in another for three months only to move back again. And so, I've been switching in and out of school systems (in my last year of high school, too!), which has caused this delay in my story.

I do thank you all for your wonderful reviews on my last chapter. That's what keeps my creative fires a-burnin'! And, as Bob Cratchet knows, coal's very expensive--much like the high price of meat nowadays (when ya get it, if you get it).

Once again, I own nothing you see within say for: Aisling (a very _fictional_ Irish village), its townsfolk, the twins, and the still-elusive Celine Haddock. Blah, blah, blah, I'm not making any money off of this, blah. Also, as a sidenote, the first section of this chapter has all the dialogue in italics. This is because I refuse to torture myself and my readers by writing it all out in Gaelic. Therefore, anything in **bold** would normally be _italicized _and anything normal is plain English. That's all, folks.

So, to repay you all for your kindness in waiting, I've written the longest--and more suspenseful--chapter to keep you occupied. Without further I ado, I give you:

**Chapter Four: For All the Tea in Aisling**

_

* * *

Aisling, October 30th, near midnight—1899

* * *

_

The village was still that night, quietly anticipating the holiday, which lay mere hours away. High up in the indigo sky shone a full moon, its skeletal face grinning down on a solitary hut. The little house sat on a hillside on the outskirts of the village, opposite the shore. Three-fourths of the building was surrounded by an assortment of wild herbs—a sinister spice garden to the botanical eye—leaving the front with a bare, ragged door for an entrance. No windows were visible, giving any potential visitors the distinct feeling of hostility that the owner wanted to portray.

In the all-too-bright light of the leering moon, one cloaked shape could be seen striding quickly toward this unfriendly site, their footfalls as silent as the gathering dew on the grass. They soon reached the crooked door, rapping a milk-white fist on its splintered front, calling out to the resident in a harsh whisper.

"_Open up! It's only me,_"

The door cracked slightly. Firelight blazing from a hearth within cast a dark shadow over the stooped figure that had answered, and revealed the beautiful face of Ciara Cailleach; her fine features marred with a scowl. More people were inside waiting around the glowing flames, wearing cloaks with large hoods drawn up to hide their faces.

"_You'd do best to treat your elders with more respect,_" hissed the silhouette, stepping aside as Ciara entered and shrugged off her cloak in exchange for another.

"_In that case,_" the impertinent youth sneered, throwing up her hood also. "_I ought to be on my knees, overcome with reverence, oughtn't I?_"

"_It'd be a start,_" growled the other darkly, gesturing for her to take her place amongst the others. Ciara obeyed wordlessly, though her mouth had become a thin line of annoyance, and stood beside a slightly shorter man.

The room was bare say for a large mirror above the fireplace and a table laden with various items of the occult: a silver dagger, five chalices, two bowels (one filled with water, the other with some strange liquid in which bell-shaped, purple blossoms and black berries were soaking), and a mortar and pestle. Off to the side were some more flowers varying from lavender to yellow—monkshood.

The five of them stood there: Man, woman, man, woman—standing evenly spaced from each other in a pentacle formation with the mysterious Elder marking the point.

"_Now,_" croaked the Elder, pointing one gnarled finger at the late-comer, shrouded eyes never left the looking glass above the dancing flames. "_What took precedence over this meeting that you should arrive late, Sister?_" Ciara shifted nervously under the hidden accusation, not daring to speak.

"_You are aware that, had you not shown before twelve, all would have been ruined? Perhaps, you are not ready to take on my magic—_"

"_But I am here now!_" Ciara protested with a desperate note in her voice. "_It is not too late; I am ready! It was that damned vampire; she was still awake up until ten minutes ago. I had to give her a mix of chamomile and valerian then wait for her to nod off._"

"_That is no excuse,_" the Elder responded curtly. "_This…League is a blessing delivered unto us by Nera himself. Without them we'd not only have lost the twins, but also the opportunity to gain **true** power. Behold!_"  
The hanging mirror suddenly began to glow with much more intensity than a reflected fire could cause, and Ciara's muttering about "insomniac blood-suckers" ceased immediately. Three images could be made out as the glass shivered and boiled like a hot spring. There was a man, a woman, and…something that resembled a gorilla. All appeared to be sleeping.

"_We, my Brothers and Sisters, have had the lucky fortune to have such treasures walk willingly into our hands. As I told you earlier in the day, they indeed have great power—even the dark man and the **American** have much strength in spirit and will—but, until now, I did not know what kind, say for the vampire._"

"_You could smell the stench of death on her,_" Ciara smirked.

"_Shush,_" admonished the man beside her, his bushy beard twitching as he next spoke to their leader. "_What have you learned, Mistress?_"

"_Ah, I imagine you're all especially curious about this unseen man, this_ daoinesídhe" The Elder chuckled; a dry sound like dead leaves brushing against a windowsill. "_He is naught but a man, and a thief even by English standards._" She paused as the group shared a small laugh, and continued on in a tone that expressed her interest as the largest figure in the magicked mirror became more focused.

"_The other, though, was a particularly tricky one to look at…mainly, because I **couldn't** look at him, at least the form we see with the naked eye._" The apish man in the looking glass turned his head sharply as if hearing them, and peered with bleary eyes.

"_He cannot see us, nor do I think the "good" doctor would believe anything he'd say if he could._

"_I've gleaned bits from the brute's mind and from what Ciara has learned in her conversations with the weaker half. He is named 'Edward' and has a more concentrated darkness and force of will than ever I've seen. Edward is trapped within this mortal—we assume it is a punishment or form of containing his power—and constantly urges his vessel to drink an elixir of some kind._" Here her hood at last turned from the mirror, which became normal once more, and faced the blonde woman.

"_I trust you were able to complete the task I had given you this past noon?_"

"_Of course._" The young woman held up a vial of clear liquid that glimmered red in the fire's light, and handed it to the Elder. "_I was forced to endure his prattle about some Scot who—apparently—was a great hunter and 'a true friend' that died. Bloody fool got himself so distracted, he didn't notice me slip this off of him._" Ciara smirked and studied her nails pretentiously. "_You really must admire the power of a female's sympathy—whether or not it be real._"

"_If you're quite finished with your narcissism,_" the other man, who stood as the tallest member in the room, rumbled in a deep voice. "_We're in need of the monkshood tincture tonight. Those two devils destroyed most of our supply when they ran off last night; we had to use the emergency bit tonight._"

"_Certainly, Brother, I had a prepared a batch in the likelihood that they had. Though, I had hoped a strong man like yourself could have kept two **children** under control—even your wife was armed with enough silver to raise Aisling out of poverty._" The other man and woman looked to each other briefly before the latter spoke up quietly.

"_We think the girl might have pinched some of our belladonna—we keep some in case we should get poisoned ourselves—and used it on herself and her brother._"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, seeming to mute even the crackle of the fireplace. Then, the Elder went to the table where she picked up the silver dagger, its edge glinting with malevolent intent. The woman who had unwittingly voiced her incompetence flinched.  
But their leader did not raise the blade against her. She instead took the knife to her own hand—the one not facing them—and let the blood drip from the blade into each of the five goblets.

"_Well then,_" the Elder said with a grimace as she quickly wrapped her hand before filling the glasses with water from the first bowel, and passed them out to the others. "_I suppose you and your husband shall have to be very careful not too kill other yourselves or your other two guests, won't you?_"

"_Yes, Mistress,_" the man and woman murmured together, taking the knife, and adding their own blood to the others' chalices. Soon each member had paid their rite and waited for their leader's signal. The Elder took a long drink from her cup, and the others did the same, sharing each other's power.  
Unbeknownst to them, their wise and cleaver priestess had not added her blood, but merely added grape juice enhanced with a bit of glamour magic. It was, after all, her specialty.

The goblets now empty, each member scooped a handful of dirt from the bare floor as the head of the group traced a complicated pattern in the air with the bloodied dagger. Once she'd finished, each cloaked villager threw in their fistful and the fire shot up with a flash of green.

The old woman then called out in an ancient voice radiating her supremacy:

"_Osclaíonn sibh an doras dul daoine sídhe!_ We open now the door of spirits!"

* * *

The _Daray_ _Home_, _Halloween_, _mid_-_morning_—_1899__

* * *

_

"Morning, 'Enry," the groggy voice of Rodney Skinner greeted as a chair seemingly pulled itself out from the table and allowed a pair of disembodied trousers (accompanied with a rumpled nightshirt) to sit. The empty sleeve of the shirt rose up, stopping about five inches away from Skinner's _pince-nez_ before they readjusted themselves on an unseen nose.

The good doctor offered his invisible friend a pleasant smile over the rim of his chipped teacup. He handed the talking attire another cup, pouring it near to the brim with the strong, black brew from the kettle Mrs. Daray had set out for them.

"Good Morning, Rodney. You're up earlier than I had expected."

"Yeah, well, it's a bloody hard to stay asleep without eyelids. All this sunshine and chirpin' birdies ain't 'elpin' none either," Skinner replied with less of his usual cheer, clearly not being a morning person. The empty sleeve rose up with the cup, stopping near the glasses. A swishing puddle of tea collected in the air a moment before sliding snake-like down the shirt's collar. Skinner sighed in content.

"Ah, good stuff they got us."

Dr. Jekyll, having grown accustomed to similar sights when it came to Rodney, merely drank from his own cup, a discomfited expression on his pallid face. They ate the simple breakfast of eggs and toast in silence—Rodney's being a sleepy one, Jekyll's contemplative.

"Where're de kidsh den?" Skinner asked through a mouthful of what looked to be eggs. At Henry's grimace, he hid his face in the crook of his sleeve and swallowed. "Sorry."

"Quite all right. I haven't seen them since yesterday." Jekyll frowned worriedly, fiddling with the braided chain of his watch. "Rhoswen said they'd been feeling ill…she seemed to suggest it was a bad reaction to my treatment."

"What a load of waffle!" Skinner interjected, wincing at how loud he sounded in the quiet of the gray morning. He continued on in an angry whisper, gesticulating with his butter knife.

"You did better by those kids in an hour than she did in day! Some gratitude…" he trailed off, taking note of the doctor's face, which seemed transfixed in horror.

"'Enry? 'Enry," the Invisible thief waved his hand in front of Jekyll's face for a second before recognizing the futility of the act. _Okay, Rod, it's a new day; let's turn on your brain,_ he berated inwardly, snapping his fingers instead. "You alright, mate?"

"Mr. Skinner, look behind you—quickly." The doctor's voice was so low and grave, that Rodney nearly toppled from his chair as he whipped around toward the open doorway.

When Mrs. Daray left earlier, she had asked Jekyll to keep the door open, in order to cool the house down as the night was oddly warm. Though, a young woman with long, brown curls and bright blue eyes now occupied its entrance.

Skinner noted with horror that her elegant neck was torn across the throat, and blood dribbled down the front of her blouse.

"D-do you see h-h-her?" Jekyll stammered, too afraid to even blink. His hand shot out and gripped Skinner tightly by the shoulder. "**Do you**?"  
The woman smiled sadly at them, looking at Jekyll with an expression akin to love.

Rodney felt as though the frightened physician would break something with the way he was holding on, and place his hand over Henry's in an attempt to both placate and pry him off. The thief looked up at his friend, dismayed to see tears in the other man's eyes.

"Yeah, I do! Love a duck; what's the matter with you? Who is she?" The haunted eyes Henry turned on him chilled the very marrow in his bones, but not as much as the words that followed did.

"She's dead, Rodney. I—he—we _killed_ her."

Both men's heads looked slowly back at the doorway, only to find it empty. Skinner let out his breath in a long whoosh. Chuckling nervously, he pushed his teacup away in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Heh, what'd they put in this stuff anyways?"

His only response was the sound of Dr. Jekyll fainting into the butter dish.

* * *

Henry lifted a trembling hand to his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. He was now sitting on a stone bench, covered in worn carvings, which overlooked the bustling village square, watching happy townsfolk finish their preparations for the Samhain feast. It was quite a few hours since his "episode" that morning, and still his ears burned red with shame.

Get over it, Hyde growled, an almost panicked edge to his usual bad temperament._ They already know you're a bleedin' pansy, Henry._

"What's the matter with you, Edward?"

_The matter with _me_ is _you_—or rather, your inability to understand why you swooned like a woman._ The brutish Hyde then made a noise similar to a mental sigh of impatience.

Henry, I'm not one for avoiding trouble—you know that all too well, but…

The train of thought lulled as Edward tried to put his meaning into words, a disquieting thing for Henry since he could always count on his alter ego to put anything bluntly and quickly. Flashes of robed figures, flames, and slicing knives flitted from Hyde's collective mind through Jekyll's. It seemed like the usual gory nonsense, but upon closer investigation.

Henry shook his head and sighed in exasperation.

"I don't know what you're trying to pull, Edward, but I'm growing tired of this—"

It isn't foolishness you bloody poof! We have to go before…before something happens.

"Like what, pray tell?" Jekyll responded, a little less waspishly than he'd wanted, finding Hyde's behavior intriguing. It was a scientist's habit that would forever plague him.

Something like—God's Balls!

Dr. Jekyll frowned at the cursing, opening his mouth to question further, but suddenly found himself speechless.

It was at that moment a dapper old gentleman, his face bloodied and broken, walked out from the square. At his arm, sporting her fatal neck wound, was the brunette from that morning.

Something like them_, maybe?_

The two stopped not a few feet away from where Jekyll sat frozen in shock, and smiled at him.

"…Sir Danvers? Lucy?"

The older gentleman tipped his bloodstained top hat congenially, while the woman gave a flourishing curtsy, flashing a bit of leg. A powerful feeling of nausea swept through Henry, and it took all his will—perhaps most of Edward's—not to retch on the spot.

"Y-you can't be here," he moaned, raising a shaky hand as if to ward them off. The two ghostly beings each gave him a sad, pitying smile.

"You're dead…you're **dead**!"

"Dr. J?" a soft, Southern drawl called up to him, giving cause to tear away from the ghastly duo before him.

Tom Sawyer quickly made his way up the rest of the slight incline to where Henry was. Tossing his blond hair from his eyes, he looked around the grassy area seeing only Henry, a few small bumps in the ground (what Merv had called "fairy mounds"), and the ornately carved, stone bench the pallid doctor sat on. No one else could be seen.

"What's wrong, Doc? Who ya talkin' to?"

Henry's blue eyes were wide and fearful as he, too, searched for his visitors. Finding no sign of life—say for village square below and the ramshackle hut of Morrígan a short distance away—Jekyll allowed himself to relax a bit, running a hand through his sweaty, auburn hair.  
The sudden pressure of Tom's hand on his shoulder made him jump, and the American crossed his arms in consternation.

"Dang, Jekyll! What's gotten into you?" He peered into the wan man's face, brows furrowed. "You ain't lookin' too good. Eat somethin' funny?"

"I'm sorry, Thomas," Henry apologized, standing with a slight wobble, and offering a meek half-smile. "I suppose I must have…I think I may be seeing things, but—" He stopped, remembering all-too-well how Rodney was also able to see Lucy at breakfast.

"It really _must_ have been the tea."

Hyde expressed his emphatic disagreement to the tentative doctor: _Bollocks!_

"What kinda things, Doc?" Tom asked after a moment, walking alongside Henry on their way down into the busy courtyard.

"Oh," he said as nonchalantly as possible. "Just things that aren't really there; most likely a result of something I ate that didn't quite agree with me."

Yes, like a "blob of mustard" or a "bit of undigested beef," Hyde scoffed. _Taking a page from that insufferable Dickens sot, are we?_ Henry ignored this, and, taking Tom's silence to be misunderstanding readied a further explanation. 

"You see, the human mind can be easily fooled. The right chemical combination may—"

"When you say 'things,' does that include people?" Tom interrupted, wearing a troubled expression on his youthful face.

"Er… yes, actually. W-why do you ask?"

"Well, I don't know much about food makin' a body hallucinate," Sawyer began, a strange shadow passing over him—one of guilt and fear. "But I didn't drink no tea, and I _know_ I saw someone who definitely shouldn't have been here."

There was a tense pause in their talk, in which the shrieking laughter of children and consistent hum of people conversing grated against the charged air surrounding them.

Sawyer's mouth had set into a grim line, his right hand subconsciously resting on the butt of his Colt pistol.

"Henry, have you seen Allan recently?"

* * *

**A/N:** I would just like to apologize in the case that someone was offended by Hyde's language, but...seriously, guys. He's Edward Hyde. He's stepped on people before; should we be that surprised? 


	5. A Sorta Funny Ol

**A/N:** I do not own any members of the LXG. I do, however, own the village of Aisling and all its inhabitants as well as the still-elusive Celine Haddock.

Also....I AM SOOOOOOOO SORRY!!! D8

I know I left the story--seemingly--to die a horrible agonizing death (with a cliffhanger to boot!) and I'm a terrible person for doing so! But, seeing as how excuses get one nowhere, I'll simply say that I had to deal with a lot of moving and starting my first year of college. Still, that's no excuse to leave my story (intended to be short--Ha!) and my wonderful, fantastic readers whom I am underserving of, hanging like that! I intend to finish this within two or three chapters, which (so help me GOD!) will be done before Christmas. Unless...¬_¬

NO! It shall be done. So, without further ado, here's Chapter Five on the this most fabulous of Bonfire Nights. Happy Guy Fawkes day!

**

* * *

****A Sorta Funny Ol' Day**

* * *

_Aisling Docks, Merv Lugh's home, October 30__th__, evening—1899_

* * *

"Well, Captain Nemo, I'm glad you decided to stay," the bushy-bearded Merv had said in thanks before he poured a chipped mug of weak coffee. "My humble lil' hut can't be nothin' in compare to tha' great beauty of a ship you got."

He nodded his head at the grimy kitchen window, which faced the docks. Its small frame could only just allow sight of the massive steel bow of the _Nautilus_. One needed to actually sit on the docks to better view it, which is precisely where Tom Sawyer had gone.

Nemo smiled. "I thank you for your kind, and entirely just, praise of My Lady," he replied quietly with a slight incline of the head. "But I find it rude to turn down so kind an offer as yours, and know that it would only add to the misdeed if I were to leave my…ever precocious friend here alone."

The aging dock keeper's eyes stared out the little window at the back of the blond man's head for a moment longer before turning to face the mysterious Captain with a smile.

"Ah, I see," he said with sage nod while picking up the poured coffee mug. "That is very good of you indeed, Captain. I'll go out an' give the young sir a little kick o' coffee to bring him around. Then maybe you an' I can carry on like the ol' codgers we are about our aquatic adventures, eh?"

"As enjoyable as that sounds, Mr. Lugh, I really should—"

"Merv, _le do thoil,_" he pleaded with a wave of one hand and an easy smile. "Say no more, Cap'n. You get your rest, an' we can talk more on the morrow. It'll be a fantastic festival this harvest, I can feel it." He looked off into the middle-distance out the window with a faint strain in his smile.

Nemo's brow creased momentarily and he tilted his head a bit in question, but said nothing. The man shook his head a little, and then returned to his cheery disposition in full. "Right. I'll go give the lad a hot coffee, an' be about me duties. Double-checking _all_ the knots now." He sighed, and lifted Tom's chipped mug to Nemo before backing out the door. "G'night, Cap'n."

"Goodnight Ish…Merv." The Captain's brief smile vanished, and the lines of his furrowed forehead deepened. Merv had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, and soon could be seen walking out onto the dock by Tom, both of which Nemo was grateful.

The austere Captain sat at the quaint dining table a moment more before silently standing and disappearing into the cleared-out storage room that would serve as their guest room. It was sparse and rather musty in smell, having been used to hold excess supplies for the boats and skiffs before Merv made room for two donated single mattresses.

Nemo kneeled in the square of light cast by the moon through the room's only window, and bowed. He was angry with himself for feeling so shaken by his minor slip of the tongue, and for being so taken aback by this particular villager. It was simply strange that he could be similar to his lost friend, even coming so close to using the same patterns of speech.

Merv Lugh had caught him off-guard: he reminded him of Ishmael.

* * *

_Aisling Village, Ciara __Cailleach's home, betwixt the 30__th__ and_ _Samhain—1899_

* * *

Mina examined a small sketch of a crow in flight, which hung on the wall of her room whilst sipping the tea her young hostess had prepared. She had been given Ciara's room, despite her insistence that such hospitality was unnecessary. The young woman had persisted and won, explaining that most days she wound up sleeping on the settee in the sitting room nonetheless.

"By the end o' the day, I just want to curl up and let the sun greet me through that window," she had said with a somewhat dreamy smile, nodding to the window in front of them before hopping off the comfortable divan. "Now, how does tea sound? I love a cup before bed meself."

The alabaster face of the vampiress cracked with a diminutive smile. "That would be nice, thank you." She hadn't the heart to tell the friendly, attentive woman that a far different liquid would fair much better. Tea would have to do.

In the minutes spent waiting for the kettle to heat over the tiny wood-stove, the two women spoke idly.

"I have noticed," Mina began with no betraying emotion on her face. "That you and Dr. Jekyll seemed to have formed a rather quick friendship."

The blonde's head shot up with an almost imperceptible emotion before her face flushed with embarrassment. A tiny flicker of suspicion flitted through Mina, but she dismissed it when Ciara started smiling timidly and fiddling with the hem of her breezy skirt.

"I…well, I think he's very…" she stumbled about over her words, ducking her head to hide her face, and then took a deep breath. "He's a real gentleman."

Ciara then lifted her calm, composed face and her cool eyes met Mina's with a smile more sly than shy. At that precise moment, the kettle let out a banshee's wail, startling Mina into flinching.

That had been close to half an hour ago, and the young blonde had yet to return from delivering a shawl to her grandmother's house. Yet, Mina had an inkling the wriggling worm of anxiety in her gut was not for fear of Ciara's safety, but of the woman's smile. More important still was what that particular expression meant for Henry…

"Stop," she commanded herself quietly, turning away from the crow sketch, which she had been staring absently at throughout her musing, and then quickly drained the remainder of the tea. "Jekyll isn't without the ability to make his own decisions. He doesn't need me to…"

She released a tense breath through her nostrils. "This foolishness was meant to be decided weeks ago," Mina finished her self-criticism, glaring coldly at the reflection in Ciara's mirror.

It was an oddly large mirror for so modest an arrangement, but the Extraordinary Lady never cared much for decorating to think longer on it. What she did care for was the incredibly inviting bed the looking glass pointed out to her unusually weary eyes. With a sudden, powerful yawn that somehow managed to defeat her normally indefinite reserves, Mina turned away from her mirrored self, and started removing the sharp, uncomfortable pins in her hair.

The long red tresses fell in messy loops and ribbons around her marble-white face, where the statuesque façade shattered with another uncharacteristically wide yawn. She shook her head to fight off the now dizzying fatigue, fisting her hand against yet another yawn.

The world seemed to wobble beneath her feet, and Mina soon lost balance to find the bed rushing up to greet her. Its springs squeaked slightly, but she heard them not. Sleep had not only captured her, but bashed her over the head as well.

In the next room, the hanging wall-clock chimed twelve times.

* * *

_Aisling, Samhain, afternoon—1899_

* * *

The sun was warm as it beat down on the American Agent, and came accompanied by a cooling, autumn breeze that carried the woody scent of bonfires. There were two fires, located in the town centre not a hundred yards from where Sawyer stood perusing some of the villagers' stalls. They had been burning brilliantly since early that morning, and were carefully spaced from each other, creating a neat little pathway through the towering flames.

Tom could only guess that the pathway represented something of great importance to the people of Aisling, for none passed by without bowing or curtsying and no one walked down it. Yet, despite his natural curiosity, the young man did not bother to ask why. It seemed that most of the villagers were in a peculiar mood. Each time he greeted one of them, they would reply with a sly smile and an almost imperceptible tone of mockery in their voice. The behaviour had rankled Sawyer, since he assumed the source came from the people's impression of him—or lack thereof.

"So what if I can't do what the others do? Don't make me any less important," Tom grumbled to himself as he walked away from a table laden with apples, teacups, and candles that Ciara Cailleach oversaw. She glanced over at him with lowered lids, smirking before instructing a teenaged girl in a blindfold to pick a saucer at random. The American muttered something unpleasant under his breath before turning his back on the blonde, and walked off in a huff with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

"And there _definitely_ ain't no reason for folks to be so iffy 'round me."

"Well, now, I don't know 'bout tha', Tom."

Sawyer froze; hazel eyes glued to his dusty boots, but saw nothing in the seizing moment of panic. _I know that voice,_ he assured himself readily before common sense could deny it. In the blink of an eye—though Tom was sure he had not dared to bat so much as a lash—a pair of filthy calloused feet appeared before his, and the voice of his old friend continued playfully.

"I could think a whole bushel o' reasons why a body migh' not be so ready t' trus' ya."

Tom raised his eyes to the smiling face of a muscular, if underfed, black man in a torn pair of overalls. His grin softened a bit, and his burnt caramel-brown eyes shone with a sad light, which Sawyer could understand: The man did have bloodstained buckshot wounds splattered across his front.

"J-jim? That you?" the gob-smacked Special Agent managed after another moment of awkward, albeit terrified, silence passed. The other man nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, chagrined. Sawyer shook his head a little, blinked, and cleared his desert-dry throat. "But…you're dead, Jim. Ya can't be here unless…"

Jim broke into a hearty laugh, leaning over with his broad hands on both knees to support himself. He stopped when he saw that Tom was not appreciating the apparent gaiety of his statement, and stood straight with a more sombre expression again. "Nah, Tom, y' hain't dead, an' ya not _too_ crazy. Though, a body does get ta wonderin' sometimes…" he replied, grinning slyly at his young friend.

"Hey now! What's that s'posed to mean exactly?"

"Well, as I reck-a-lect it, y' was fixin' ta saw my po' leg clean off," Jim pointed out with a cheeky grin before waggling his finger playfully at Tom. "An' ya up 'n' fo'got t' tell po' Huck an' me tha' I'd been free dat whole time—"

"Oh, c'mon! I couldn't been more 'n ten back then!" Sawyer argued back with something akin to a pout, crossing his arms resolutely when all Jim did was raise an eyebrow and chuckle. He felt a laugh beginning to brew within him as well, and stifled it with the remembrance that the very solid-looking man teasing him was still dead. Sobering slightly, Sawyer shrugged and added, "Kay…so maybe it was more like fourteen. We both know I wasn't the head of the class or nothin'."

"No, ya weren't much fo' tha', was ya? Not Huck or ya."

The cheery spectre fell silent after that, and the small grin Tom had been growing began to whither. All the talk of their mutual friend and saviour, Huckleberry Finn, cast an imperceptible shroud over them. Jim shifted his weight nervously, a habit he once had while living when he wished to avoid telling Tom bad news, and it failed to escape the Agent's notice.

Sighing heavily, an accomplishment a tad mind-boggling still to Sawyer, the lead-riddled man began speaking grimly. "Huck hain't gonna show up, Tom."

"…What?" Sawyer asked breathlessly, fear gripping his heart tightly as Jim apparently ripped the unspoken question from his mind.

The older man held up one large hand, beseeching Tom for silence, which was granted. "I hain't got much time left ta say what's I got ta." He paused, looking off into the distance vaguely before shaking himself, and continuing. "I hain't seen Huck 'round where 'm at, say fo' righ' after he passed here. An' no, I ain't s'posed t' tell y' what it's like 'round…uh, where 'm at." Jim smiled apologetically.

"But, wait," Tom interrupted, unable to help himself given the circumstances and content of what Jim had just told him. "What d'ya mean Huck ain't with ya? Are ya sayin'…Huck is—?"

"I can't say, Tom, an' I don't righ'ly know. Now jus' lis'en, please," Jim pleaded, deep eyes crinkling sadly at the corners. "Ya gonna be facin' a whole mess-a trouble, Tom, an' I hain't gonna be much help t' ya. There's a whole cobweb o' bad hoodoo y'all got here. Tha's what gone an' brung me here t' ya now lookin' a righ' mess."

He gestured with one sweeping hand over the buckshot embedded in his chest. "When we spirits get called, we come a-lookin' like just 'bout anythin'; it's all up ta whoever done hollered fo' us what tha' anythin' is."

"So, someone made ya look like ya did when you…" Tom asked, trailing off with a pointed look at Jim's gaping and gory front, to which the ex-slave gave a grave nod. "But, why? Don't make much sense to me."

"Mos' folk don't make much sense t' me," Jim responded in that sage, simple way Tom had so admired him for. "'Spect a body 'round here mus' wanna be scarin' folk somethin' fierce…"

He paused to return the friendly wave of a small girl skipping on by, looking just as confused as Sawyer for a moment before adopting his serious face once more. "Or not. But tha' hain't 'portant now. Y' gotta be watchin' all 'round, Tom Sawyer."

He stopped again, looking fearful, and forcing Sawyer to wonder just what could frighten the dead. "Gotta leave soon."

"What d'ya mean, Jim? Watch for what? For who?" Tom stepped forward, face fixated on the apparition unblinkingly. Yet, Jim only shook his head and looked off into the distance, his mouth moving but no sound escaping it. "Jim!"

The older man's eyes then riveted to Tom's, and his broad, solid-looking hand leapt up without preamble to pass through the League member's forehead. An explosion of images bombarded the young Agent, flying so fast and vividly that it made him physically cry out. The sorrowful, burnt caramel-brown eyes of his long-dead friend stayed on his, and Jim's voice rang through Tom's mind with such finality and force that he feared something would burst.

"Oi, Sawyer!"

Tom spun around at the sound of the Invisible thief's greeting, stumbling in surprise at his sudden mobility. He gasped quietly, whipping his head back from the floating _pince-nez_, trilby, and duster to where Jim was. The dead man was gone—possibly for good—and he had been left with more questions than ever before.

"Damn it," he cursed unabashedly, kicking an overturned rock out into the soughing grass beyond the stalls. Ironically, he received a scolding from the gentlemanly crook, who was currently surrounded by din of children. "Sorry, Skinner."

"S'alrigh'," Skinner shrugged, shooing the kids away with the seemingly empty sleeves of his leather duster. "Run off now, bobbins. Uncle Roddy'll go apple dunkin' later."

This was met with a round of disappointed groans, but the children scampered off as ordered. Once their laughter had breeched the air at the far end of the village square, Sawyer spoke. "Uncle _Roddy_?"

"Yeah, what of it?" Skinner retorted with the hint of smile in his voice, and his ­_pince-nez_ turned toward his friend. "So…what's the matter wiv you? Where'd tha' bloke go?"

"You saw him?" Tom asked excitedly, gripping the Invisible Man's shoulders with fervency.

"Christ Almigh'y, Tom!" Skinner partially growled, shaking off the younger man's hold. "What is wiv you lot today? Firs' Jekyll's actin' crackers, then Mina goes an' plays the recluse by lockin' herself in all day, an' now you?" The slow back and forth swaying of his shaded glasses suggested a sad shake of the head as he added in mock-hurt, "An' 'ere I was, thinkin' I could talk to one o' me best chums like a sane person."

"Gotta be sane first, Skinner," Sawyer responded with a small nudge in an attempt to seem more light-hearted as an apology to his friend. Yet, he could not keep from frowning at this news of the others. The only other member of the League he had seen since waking late that morning—other than Skinner—was Nemo, and the captain had been engaged in a lively conversation with their host at the time.

"What'd he say?"

"Huh?" The American shook himself out of his slight reverie, raising his eyebrows over at the floating hat. "Nemo?"

"…_No_," the thief replied slowly. "The big bloke jus' a moment ago. Looked like 'e was pokin' ya in the conk. But then you were spinnin' on me like some mad top, an' he was gone before I could see anythin'."

"That was Jim…he was a friend of mine," Tom said quietly, trailing off as the flood of images began to resurface and flicker in his mind again. He started rather violently when he felt the presence of an unseen hand on his forehead, but quickly apologized when the thief's coat sleeve retreated.

"Lord, Tom, I was jus' checkin' to see you don't 'ave some sort o' brain fever." Skinner reprimanded, tone somewhat sour with worry. "Sure are actin' nutty enough."

Tom smiled inwardly. In many ways, the Gentleman Thief reminded him of Jim; both were always easy-going and watching out for him, as well as getting into trouble with him. More of the images that Jim had shown him drifted forward with confusing clarity, and he struggled to hold onto them. "…He was—"

"Please," the Invisible Man interrupted, holding his sleeve up to stop him. "Don't tell me he was dead." He groaned loudly at Tom's surprised face, reaching up to remove his glasses and rub his face. "Brilliant. Tha's jus' what Jekyll was on about wiv this…woman who popped by the Daray's this morning. Kept sayin' tha'…uh, Hyde killed 'er or somethin'."

Sawyer straightened at that, eyes narrowed in determination. "Where is Jekyll now?"

"Thought I saw 'im goin' tha' way. Why—Hey!" Skinner skirted out of the way as the Special Agent started forward with a determined gait toward the sloping hill where a lone figure had just taken a seat at its weathered bench. "No bloody respect," he grumbled and straightened his lapels in aggravation. Then, a thought struck him and he called out, "What did 'e say? Tha' friend o' yours?"

The young man stopped, and turned around to face his friend's hat. "…He asked me if I'd seen Allan—recently." Then, he continued on steadfastly toward Henry, leaving Skinner behind to wonder.

"…I'm always the last bloody one to find things out," he groused, looking down when he felt a tiny tug on the flap of his duster. "Hmm?"

"Somethin' the matter, Uncle Roddy?" a little girl, who had been waving to a dead man minutes ago, asked. She received a friendly pat on the head from the ghost-man's hand, and giggled.

"Oh, nothin', sweet'eart," Rodney replied with a smile, and, for some reason, not feeling silly about doing so. "It's jus' been…a sorta funny ol' day."


End file.
